She lifted her skirt and began to run. It was a terrible moment: déjà-vu. The Norman sat his big, ugly stallion, watching, surrounded by three of his men. At the sound of her hard, fast footsteps, he shifted his horse and regarded her.
“You must stop at once!”
A hint of a smile appeared on his stern features. Ceidre was panting, bosom heaving. His gaze roamed from her face to her breasts. It was distinctly greedy, like a wolf in winter. “Did you hear me?” Ceidre cried.
“Do not interfere,” he said, turning away from her. Another cottage went up in flames. The sound of women weeping drifted to them.
“You have no soul,” Ceidre hissed. “And no heart. How sorry I am for you!” Tears stung her eyes. His men were efficiently setting the huts on fire, and now half the village was burning.
He turned a dark look upon her. “The village must be moved.”
“Why? ’Tis their homes. Their lives. Their livelihood!”
“Everything will be rebuilt, Ceidre,” he said, warning in his tone. “Do not interfere in what you do not understand.”
She ignored the threat. “You get perverse pleasure, do you not, using your power so? Frightening the ignorant with fear of a Norman death?”
“Ceidre, cease.”
“You terrorize the helpless—women, children, serfs. Yes, that takes a lot of courage. I am surprised they do not call you Rolfe the Brave for all the courage you show!”
He was red-faced. Mounted next to him, Guy Le Chante was incredulous, and also crimson. The other two men pretended not to have heard. Ceidre did not care, she was frantic and furious, beyond fear. “Yes, from now on, that is your name—Rolfe the Brave!”
It happened so fast, she could not react. The words were not out of her mouth before he had jerked her roughly up onto his mount, slamming her facedown across his thighs. And the stallion was in a hard gallop, almost simultaneously. Ceidre could not have moved if she wanted to—which she did not. The breath had been knocked out of her, and she could see two things —his foot in the heavy stirrup and the ground, speeding beneath them. She was in terror of being dropped beneath the great destrier’s thick, shod hooves.
And in terror of what he was going to do.
Oh, why, why could she not keep her unruly mouth shut?
The beast stopped. She was pulled down even as he dismounted, in a most undignified way, like a sack, hanging over his arm from her waist. She began to writhe. For one scant second. Her pelvis was jammed hard onto one braced thigh, the movement nearly shoving her nose in the dirt. Then, at the feel of her skirts being tossed over her head, realization took hold, and she screamed, trying to wrench free.
“You have tried me again and again,” he said through gritted teeth as he bared lush white buttocks. He was so determined, the sight did not deter him. “A child deserves a child’s chastisement.”
“If you hit me!” Ceidre shouted, furious, disbelieving that he would dare to spank her.
“You will what?” he taunted, and he smacked her hard across her buttocks.
It hurt. It also stunned her into immobility—but not for long. “How dare you!” She was enraged.
He held her easily although she struggled to get free with all of her strength. “I dare anything I please.” He hit her again, harder.
“How brave you are!” She gasped, writhing across his lap.
A third slap followed. “No one, not man or woman, talks to me the way you do,” he said harshly, staring at her white flesh. She was impossibly shapely. Her legs were long and curved, her buttocks high, round, and lush.
“I will never forgive you.” Ceidre choked, more humiliated than hurt.
“I need not your forgiveness, but you need sense,” he said hoarsely, unable to tear his eyes away from her derriere. His hand settled of its own accord upon one firm buttock.
Ceidre jerked as if burned. His hand closed upon her, squeezing. Her breath caught in her throat and she could not breathe. Nor could she move.
“You try my vows,” he said harshly, sliding his hand down to the back of her thigh. His fingers splayed, slipping intimately between her legs, a hair’s breadth from the moist heat of her womanhood.
Wildfire, hot, electric, raced through her. His hand moved, so slightly, but it was enough to press against the soft curls guarding her femininity. And against her hip, his maleness thrust boldly, hotly. “Do not,” Ceidre managed hoarsely. “Please.”
He suddenly pushed her to her knees, his hands holding her hips, hard. “I care not for my vows,” he said, gasping, his tone strangled. He groaned, long and low and so very male. “God, Ceidre, I cannot …” His groin pressed against her buttocks, hot and full, and she felt his mouth on the side of her neck. In another moment her virginity would be lost. There was despair—and there was elation.
And then he released her.
